


Ecstatic

by storiesfortravellers



Category: White Collar
Genre: Arts, Asexual Character, Community: kink_bingo, Dubious Consent, M/M, Mozzie thinks thinky thoughts on sex and art and Neal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-18
Updated: 2011-09-18
Packaged: 2017-10-23 20:24:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/254615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesfortravellers/pseuds/storiesfortravellers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Asexual!Moz/Neal established relationship. Mozzie's thoughts on pleasure, desire, sex, and what people are willing to do to stay in their relationships.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ecstatic

**Author's Note:**

> Asexual!Moz/Neal.
> 
> For: kinkbingo for consent play, and for "Asexual characters" in the Underrepresented characters challenge. This fic is also for A, who has requested fic about consent issues, Moz/Neal, and asexuality at various points. :)
> 
> Note: For clarification, since asexuality can mean many different things, Moz can get aroused and penetrate and orgasm but he doesn't enjoy it at all. He and Neal are in an established relationship.
> 
> Warnings for an asexual character who feels obligated to hide his asexuality and have sex.

Fic:

Moz is a fan of ecstasy.

Not the drug. The experience.

Gazing on the watery borders of color in a Kandinsky from the Munich period. Tasting a Burgundy that was bottled before 1880. A breeze through Central Park, carrying the scents of spring and the history of the city to Moz's lips and nose.

There was ecstasy to be found everywhere.

 

And there were deeper pleasures, too, if less transcendent. There was friendship, something so like security that Moz had to be careful not to get sentimental.

Oh, who was he kidding? Where Neal was concerned, he was more than sentimental.

Which is why he agreed to do this. Friction and sweating and the pressure of Neal's body, tight around Moz's dick.

It was sweet, really, the way Neal was grunting as if this were the best thing that had ever happened to him. It was nice, to be able to give Neal his little moment of ecstasy. He had had to take a pill this time, but had convinced Neal that it was for added fun and endurance.

As he moved in and out (in and out, in and out), Moz let his mind wander. He wondered what Neal would say if he told him the truth. Cons keep secrets, especially from each other, and so Neal wouldn't be angry that Mozzie had misled him. But Mozzie knew Neal too well, and he knew that Neal needed to be desired. Neal could intellectually grasp that it wasn't a reflection on him personally, but Neal had always needed someone who couldn't help themselves around him.

Moz was that, in a way. He was less suspicious, less careful, than he should have been in order to be with Neal. So even if Neal didn't drive him mad with desire, he drove him mad nonetheless. But that wasn't enough for Neal. Especially with the Suit and the Mrs. Suit hanging around, looking at Neal like he was a truffled ham. And besides, Neal would never ask for sex again if he knew Moz didn't like it, and then Neal would be resentful and unhappy, and that would only lead to breaking up. Or possibly Neal getting so frustrated that he started pulling risky stunts the way he did when Kate stopped sleeping with him.

Moz jerked his hips, the way Neal liked, and wondered how long he would be able to do this. There was nobody for Mozzie, not really, other than Neal. Nobody who understood him, nobody who never judged him. Certainly nobody who could challenge him intellectually the way Neal did. They loved the same things, they loved each other, and they both had to live under the radar of the Man. And it's not like there was anyone else in the world that Moz would trust to bring to Tuesday, much less to share a life with. And it's not like Mozzie could find someone online - that was just asking the Feds to find him. So it was either Neal or nothing, and as much as Mozzie hated to admit that he had been brainwashed by that neo-medieval construct called love, Mozzie preferred to have Neal. Which was a shame, since he was so hoping that he would turn out aromantic.

Neal let out a moan and Moz patted his back lightly and continued to move. It wouldn't be long now, Moz told himself. He could do this.

He knew this wasn't quite right. What he was doing to his friend. He knew for certain that Neal would refuse if he knew how much Moz disliked it. But he intentionally withheld that information to take away that choice.

But then, wasn't Neal doing the same to him? Neal took for granted that Mozzie would fuck him; Neal, in fact, always took for granted that everyone he batted his eyelashes at wanted nothing more than to bend him over the nearest table. And it's not that Neal was unappealing; he was beautiful, chiseled, classical looking with a fashionable smidgin of androgyny. And Moz could certainly get off watching Neal forge a Van Gogh in under a day. Well, not literally. But he could get off in the better way, the way that counted.

But Neal just assumed that Moz would fuck him. In order to get Neal to stick around -- in order for Moz to not be alone his entire life -- he had to fuck Neal.

Moz grimaced as he realized that he hadn't said no to Neal in weeks. He always said yes, to avoid explaining a no.

Moz reached around to pinch at Neal's hanging parts. He tried not to think about the fact that he didn't have a choice in the matter. When Neal was done, Moz managed to ejaculate too, hot messiness spilling out like batter.

Moz felt resentful for a moment as they lay there, then, next to each other, panting and flushed with effort. But then Neal moved his face to lean on Mozzie's shoulder and gave him that bright, needy smile, and Moz softened and smiled back. He knew Neal, and he knew that Neal really did need it; it wasn't just Neal being a conformist, it was that Neal needed to be fucked for far more reasons than whatever bodily enjoyments came with it. There was something in him that needed to dazzle and please -- that needed to be used, really. It wasn't just pleasure that made Neal such a sexual being; it was a lifetime of irrational insecurity.

Neal was being forced into it, too. By some Darwinian urge to rub against something, yes, but also by whatever his father or mother or childhood bully or whoever it was did to turn Neal so desperate for attention and approval.

And then Moz thought of the millions of people out there, some like Moz, not wanting sex at all, but many others too, having sex they don't want to have, because of circumstance, because they are with someone of the wrong gender, because they can't leave the person they no longer want to have sex with. He thinks of the books he has read about sexuality, about the way society and the Man work their way into every body part that people have, about the women who fuck their husbands because their no would make them lose their home and children, about the working stiffs who let their bosses fuck them literally and otherwise, about the half-broken smiling masses who think that they're worthless if they're not fucking someone. Even the so-called happy couples, tasting things they don't want to taste, ignoring it when it hurts or it's bad. It's all sex is, Mozzie thinks, people rubbing up against each other because they think they have a choice. Just like they think they have a choice to serve their corporate oligarchy, and like they think they have a choice to believe in history's lies.

Mozzie looked over and realized that Neal had fallen asleep. His resentment had turned to pity. He knew he was over-analyzing, but part of him wondered if they weren't just exploiting each other, each taking advantage of the other's psychosexual capital.

But then, maybe it wasn't so bad. Didn't Jean Genet say that art, crime, and fucking were all one and the same?

Mozzie chuckled. Maybe he should stop worrying about the political implications and just decide that sex was performance art. A ruthless kind of art, the kind that implicated everyone who viewed it in some unconsented act.

There was a beauty in that, Moz knew. A horrible beauty, violent and raw. The same beauty on a person's face who has just realized what Mozzie has stolen from them.

A sunken beauty, as Genet would say.

But a beauty nonetheless.

This would be something to remember for the future, Moz knew. This beauty would get him through it next time. Maybe even the time after that


End file.
